Part 43

Let us also remember that in the East to-day (as it was with us of Europe before the growth of that humanitarianism which now shows signs of unhealthy exaggeration) pain and death are part of the common, every-day risks of life, risks lightly incurred by the average Oriental in the great game of ambitions, loves and hates that is for ever played around the Throne. Tzŭ Hsi played her royal part in the great game, but it is not recorded of her that she ever took life from sheer cruelty or love of killing. When she sent a man to death, it was because he stood between her and the full and safe gratification of her love of power. When her fierce rage was turned against the insolence of the foreigner, she had no scruple in consigning every European in China to the executioner; when the Emperor’s favourite concubine disputed her Imperial authority, she had no hesitation in ordering her to immediate death; but in every recorded instance, except one, her methods were swift, clean, and, from the Oriental point of view, not unmerciful. She had no liking for tortures, or the lingering death. In all her Decrees of vengeance, we find the same unhesitating firmness in removing human obstacles from her path, combined with a complete absence of that unnecessary cruelty which is so frequently associated with despotism. Her methods, in fact, were Elizabethan rather than Florentine.

If Tzŭ Hsi developed self-reliance early in life, the fact is not to be wondered at, for it was little help that she had to look for in her entourage of Court officials. Amongst the effete classical scholars, the fat-paunched Falstaffs, the opium sots, doddering fatalists and corrupt parasites of the Imperial Clans, she seems, indeed, to have been an anachronism, a “cast-back” to the virility and energy that won China for her sturdy ancestors. She appeared to be the born and inevitable ruler of the degenerate Dynasty, and if she became a law unto herself, it was largely because there were few about her fit to lead or to command.

Imbued with a very feminine love of luxury, addicted to pleasure, and at one period of her life undoubtedly licentious after the manner of her Court’s traditions, she combined these qualities with a shrewd common sense and a marked penchant for acquiring and amassing personal property. To use her own phrase, she endeavoured in all things to observe the principle of the “happy mean,” and seldom allowed her love of pleasure to obscure her vision or to hinder her purposes in the serious businesses of life.

Like many great rulers of the imperious and militant type, she was remarkably superstitious, a punctilious observer of the rites prescribed for averting omens and conciliating the myriad gods and demons of the several religions of China, a liberal supporter of priests and soothsayers. Nevertheless, as with Elizabeth of England, her secular instincts were _au fond_ stronger than all her superstitions. That sturdy common sense, which played so successfully upon the weaknesses and the passions of her corrupt entourage, never allowed any consideration for the powers unseen to interfere seriously with her masterful handling of things visible, or to curb her ruling passion for unquestioned authority.

The qualities which made up the remarkable personality of the Empress were many and complex, but of those which chiefly contributed to her popularity and power we would place, first, her courage, and next, a certain simplicity and directness—both qualities that stand out in strong relief against the timorous and tortuous tendencies of the average Manchu. Of her courage there could be no doubt; even amidst the chaos of the days of the Boxer terror it never failed her, and Ching Shan is only one of many who bear witness to her unconquerable spirit and _sang froid_. Amidst scenes of desolation and destruction that might well shake the courage of the bravest men, we see her calmly painting bamboos on silk, or giving orders to stop the bombardment of the Legations to allow of her excursion on the Lake. How powerful is the dramatic quality of that scene where she attacks and dominates the truculent Boxer leaders at her very doors; or again when, on the morning of the flight, she alone preserves presence of mind, and gives her orders as coolly as if starting on a picnic! At such moments all the defects of her training and temperament are forgotten in the irresistible appeal of her nobler qualities.

Of those qualities, and of her divine right to rule, Tzŭ Hsi herself was fully convinced, and no less determined than His Majesty of Germany, to insist upon proper recognition and respect for herself and her commanding place in the scheme of the universe. Her belief in her own supreme importance, and her superstitious habit of thought were both strikingly displayed on the occasion when her portrait, painted by Miss Carl for the St. Louis Exposition, was taken from the Waiwupu on its departure to the United States. She regarded this presentment of her august person as entitled, in all seriousness of ceremonial, to the same reverence as herself and gave orders for the construction of a miniature railway, to be built through the streets of the capital for its special benefit. By this means the “sacred countenance” was carried upright, under its canopy of yellow silk, and Her Majesty was spared the thought of being borne in effigy on the shoulders of coolies—a form of progress too suggestively ill-omened to be endured. Before the portrait left the Palace, the Emperor was summoned to prostrate himself before it, and at its passing through the city, and along the railway line, the people humbly knelt, as if it had been the Old Buddha of flesh and blood. Incidents of this kind emphasise the impossibility of fairly judging the Empress by European standards of conduct and ideas. To get something of the proper atmosphere and perspective, we must go back to the early days of the Tudors.

Blunt of speech herself, she was quick to detect and resent flattery. Those who rose highest in her affection and regard were essentially strong men, blunt outspoken officials of the type of Jung Lu, Tseng Kuo-fan, and Tso Tsung-t’ang; for those who would win her favour by sycophancy she had a profound contempt, which she was at no pains to conceal, though in certain instances (_e.g._, Chang Chih-tung) she overlooked the offence because of ripe scholarship or courage. An amusing example of this trait in her character occurred on one occasion when, after perusing the examination papers for the selection of successful candidates for the Hanlin Literary degrees, she expressed herself in the following trenchant Decree:—

“A certain candidate in the Hanlin examination, named Yen Chen, has handed in some verses, the style of which is excellent, but their subject matter contains a number of allusions laudatory of the present Dynasty. This person has evidently gone out of his way to refer to the present rulers of the Empire, and has even seen fit to display gross flattery, for his essay contains, amongst others, a sentence to the effect that ‘we have now upon the Throne a female embodiment of Yao and Shun.’[133] Now, the Throne defines merit in candidates to-day on the same principles as those which were in force under former Dynasties, its object being to form a correct idea of the moral standards of candidates by perusal of their essays and lyrical compositions. But this effort of Yen Chen is nothing more than a laudatory ode, entirely lacking in high seriousness. This is a grave matter: the question involved is one closely affecting character and moral training; such conduct cannot possibly be permitted to continue. The examiners have placed Yen Chen at the top of the list in the First Class; he is hereby relegated to the last place in that class. Let our examiners for the future take more care in scrutinising the papers submitted.”

As was only natural, Tzŭ Hsi was not above favouring her own people, the Manchus, but one great secret of the solidity of her rule undoubtedly lay in her broad impartiality and the nice balance which she maintained between Chinese and Manchus in all departments of the Government. She had realised that the brains and energy of the country must come from the Chinese, and that if the Manchus were to retain their power and sinecure positions, it must be with the good will of the Chinese and the loyalty of the Mandarin class in the provinces. From the commencement of her rule, down to the day when she handed over her Boxer kinsmen to the executioner, she never hesitated to inflict impartial punishment on Manchus, when public opinion was against them. A case in point occurred in 1863, in connection with one of her favourite generals, named Sheng Pao, who had gained her sincere gratitude by his share in the war against the British and French invaders in 1860, and who, by luck and the ignorance of the Court, had been credited with having stopped the advance of the Allies to Jehol. For these alleged services she had awarded him special thanks and high honour. In 1863, however, he was engaged in Shensi, fighting the Taipings, and, following a custom not unusual amongst Chinese military commanders, had asked leave to win over one of the rebel leaders by giving him an important official position. Tzŭ Hsi, who had had ample opportunities to learn something of the danger of this procedure, declined to sanction his request, pointing out the objections thereto. Sheng Pao ventured to suppress her Decree, and gave the rebel the position in question. Success might have justified him, but the ex-bandit justified Tzŭ Hsi by going back on his word. Awaiting a good opportunity, he raised once more the standard of revolt, massacred a number of officials, and captured several important towns. General Sheng Pao was arrested and brought in custody to Peking; under cross-examination he confessed, amongst other misdemeanours, that he had permitted women to accompany the troops during this campaign, which, by Chinese military law, is a capital offence. Other charges against him, however, he denied, and, preserving an insolent attitude, demanded to be confronted with his accusers. Tzŭ Hsi issued a characteristically vigorous Decree in which she declared that the proper punishment for his offence was decapitation, but inasmuch as he had acquired merit by good work against the Taipings, as well as against the British and French invaders, she graciously granted him the privilege of committing suicide, of which he promptly availed himself.

Tzŭ Hsi, as we have said, was extremely superstitious; nor is this matter for wonder when we bear in mind the medieval atmosphere of wizardous necromancy and familiar spirits which she had perforce absorbed with her earliest education. Following the precepts of Confucius, she preserved always a broad and tolerant attitude on all questions of religion, but, while reluctant to discuss things appertaining to the unknown gods, she was always prepared to conciliate them, and to allow her actions in everyday affairs to be guided by the words of her wise men and astrologers—“by dreams, and by Urim and by prophets.” Thus we find her in the first year of the Regency of her son’s minority (1861) issuing, in his name, a Decree, which carries back the mind irresistibly to Babylon and those days when the magicians and soothsayers were high personages in the State.

“During the night of the 15th of the 7th Moon,” it begins, “there occurred a flight of shooting stars in the southern hemisphere; ten days later, a comet appeared twice in the sky to the north-west. Heaven sends not these warnings in vain. For the last month Peking has been visited by a grievous epidemic, whereof the continued severity fills us with sore dismay. The Empresses Dowager have now warned us that these portents of Heaven are sent because of serious wrong in our system of government, of errors unreformed and grievances unredressed,” and the Decree ends by exhorting all concerned “to put away frivolous things, so that Heaven, perceiving our reverend attitude, may relent.”

In previous chapters we have shown with what punctilious attention she consulted her astrologers in regard to the propitious day for re-entering her capital on the Court’s return from exile, her anxiety for scrupulous observance of their advice being manifestly sincere. In her concern for omens and portents she seemed, like Napoleon, to obey instincts external and superior to another and very practical side of her nature, which, however, asserted itself unmistakably whenever vital issues were at stake and her supreme authority threatened. She was at all times anxious to secure the goodwill of the ancestral spirits, whose presence she apprehended as a living reality, but even with these, when it came to a direct issue between her own despotic authority and their claims to consideration, she never hesitated to relegate the mighty dead to the background, content to appease them in due season by suitable expressions of reverence and regret. The most notable instance of this kind occurred when, disregarding the Dynastic laws of succession, she deprived her son, the Emperor T’ung-Chih, of the rites of ancestral worship, committing thus a crime which, as she well knew, was heinous in the eyes of the Chinese people.

Her superstitious tendencies were most remarkably displayed in the matter of the selection of the site of her tomb, and its building, an occasion of which the Court geomancers took full advantage. When T’ung-Chih reached his majority in 1873, his first duty was to escort the Empresses Dowager to the Eastern Mausolea, where, with much solemnity, two auspicious sites, encircled by hills and watered by streams, were selected and exorcised of all evil influences. Further ceremonies and mystic calculations were required to determine the auspicious dates for the commencement of building operations; in these, and the adornment of the tomb, Tzŭ Hsi continued to take the keenest interest until the day of her death. In order to secure scrupulous regard for its construction in accordance with the requirements of her horoscope, and to make her sepulchre a fitting and all-hallowed resting-place, she entrusted its chief supervision to Jung Lu, who thus secured a permanent post highly coveted by Manchu officials, in which huge “squeezes” were a matter of precedent. The geomantic conditions of these burial places gave unusual trouble, the tomb of the Empress Tzŭ An having eventually to be shifted fifteen feet two inches northwards, and four feet seven and a half inches westwards, before the spirits of her ancestors were perfectly satisfied, while that of Tzŭ Hsi was removed seven feet four inches to the north and eight inches to the eastward.

Tzŭ Hsi feared no man. From the first moment of her power, secure in the sense of divine right and firmly believing in her “star,” she savoured her authority like a rich wine. The pleasure she derived from delivering homilies to the highest officials in the Empire may be read between the lines of her Decrees. Already in 1862, that is to say, before she was twenty-seven years of age, we find her solemnly admonishing the Grand Council on their duties, urging them to adopt stricter standards of conduct, and to put a check on their corrupt tendencies. “They are, of course, not debarred from seeking advice from persons below them in society, but let them be careful to avoid any attempt at forming cabals or attracting to themselves troops of followers.” And on another occasion, when she specially invited the Censors to impeach Prince Kung, she observed: “In discussing the principles of just government you should remember the precept of the Confucian school, which is, ‘Be not weary in well-doing: strict rectitude of conduct is the road royal to good government. Face and overcome your difficulties, and thus eventually earn the right to ease.’” Tzŭ Hsi could turn out this sort of thing, which appeals to every Chinese scholar, in good style and large quantities. She took pride in the manufacture of maxims for the guidance of the Mandarins, but there was always a suspicion that her tongue was in her cheek while she carefully penned these copybook platitudes, just as we know there was when she set herself to display what _The Times_ correspondent at Peking called her “girlish abandon,” in order to regain the affection of Mrs. Conger and the ladies of the Diplomatic Body.

Of the Empress Dowager’s popularity and prestige with all classes of her subjects, there is no doubt. At Peking especially, and throughout the Metropolitan Province, she was the object of a very general and very sincere affection; seldom is her name spoken except with expressions of admiration and regard, very similar in effect to the feelings of the British people for Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Although her share of responsibility for the Boxer rising and for the consequent sufferings inflicted on the people was matter of common knowledge, little or no blame was ever imputed to the Old Buddha. Her subjects loved her for her very defects, for the foolhardy courage that had staked the Empire on a throw. Amongst the lower classes it was the general opinion that she had done her best, and with the best intentions. The scheme itself was magnificent—to drive the foreigner into the sea—and it appealed to her people as worthy of their ruler and of a better fate. If it had failed for this time, it was the will of Heaven, and no doubt at some future date success would justify her wisdom. If they blamed her at all, it was for condescending to intimate relations with the hated foreigner after the Court’s return to Peking; but even in this, she had the sympathy rather than the censure of her subjects.

To the great mass of her people, who had never seen her, but knew her only by cumulative weight of common report, the Old Buddha stood for the embodiment of courage, liberality and kindness of heart. If, as they knew, she were subject to fierce outbursts of sudden rage, the fact did her no injury in the eyes of a race which believes that wrath-matter undischarged is a virulent poison in the system. The simple Chihli folk made allowance, not without its sense of humour, for their august sovereign’s capacity to generate wrath-matter, as for her feminine mutability: To them she was a great ruler and a _bon enfant_. In a country where merciless officials and torture are part of the long-accepted order of things, no more stress was laid on her numerous acts of cold blooded tyranny than, shall we say, was laid on the beheading of Earls at the close of the fifteenth century in England.

One of the writers had the good fortune once to see the Empress when proceeding in her palanquin to the Eastern tombs. She had breakfasted early at the Tung Yueh temple outside the Ch’i Hua gate, and was on her way to T’ung chou. As her chair passed along a line of kneeling peasantry, the curtains were open and it was seen that the Old Buddha was asleep. The good country people were delighted. “Look,” they cried, “the Old Buddha is sleeping. Really, she has far too much work to do! A rare woman—what a pleasure to see her thus!”

Tzŭ Hsi was recognised to be above criticism and above the laws which she rigorously enforced on others. For instance, when, a few weeks after the issue of a Decree prohibiting corporal punishment and torture in prisons, she caused the Reformer Shen Chin to be flogged to death (July, 1904), public opinion saw nothing extraordinary in the event. A few days later, when preparations were being made for the celebration of her seventieth birthday, she issued another Decree, declining the honorific title dutifully proffered by the Emperor, together with its emoluments, on the ground that she had no heart for festivities, “being profoundly distressed at the thought of the sufferings of my subjects in Manchuria, owing to the destruction wrought there by the Russian and Japanese armies. My one desire,” she added, “is that my officials may co-operate to introduce more humane methods of Government, so that my people may live to enjoy good old age, resting on couches of comfortable ease. This is the best way to honour the seventieth anniversary of my birth.” No doubt the shade of Shen Chin was duly appeased.

Of her vindictive ferocity on occasions there can be no question. As Ching Shan admits, even her most faithful admirers and servants were aware that at moments of her wrath it was prudent to be out of her reach, or, if unavoidably present, to abstain from thwarting her. They knew that those who dared to question her absolute authority or to criticise the means by which she gained and retained it, need look for no mercy. But they knew also that for faithful service and loyalty she had a royal memory and, like Catherine of Russia, she never forgot her friends.

Her unpopularity in central and southern China, which became marked after the war with Japan and violent at the time of the _coup d’état_, was in its origin anti-dynastic and political. It was particularly strong in Kuangtung, where for years Her Majesty was denounced by agitators as a monster of unparalleled depravity. The political opinions of the turbulent and quick-witted Cantonese have generally been expressed in a lively and somewhat ribald form, and when we bear in mind the popular tendency (not confined to the Far East) of ascribing gross immorality to crowned heads, we are justified in refusing to attach undue importance to the wild accusations levelled against the Empress Dowager in this quarter. The utterances of the hotspurs and lampooners of southern China are chiefly interesting in that they reveal something of the vast possibilities of cleavage inherent in the Chinese Government system, and prove the Manchu rule to have fallen into something like contempt in that region where the new forces of education and political activity are most conspicuous.

One of the doggerel verses current in 1898 fairly describes the attitude of the Cantonese man in the street towards the Dynasty. Freely translated, it runs thus:—

“_There are three questions which men must not ask about our Great Manchu Dynasty:_

“_At what ancestral grave does His Majesty make filial obeisance?_

“_To what deity does the Empress Dowager sacrifice?_

“_To what husbands are the Imperial Princesses married?_”

The first question is in allusion to the Emperor’s alleged doubtful parentage, while the second refers to a mythical New Year sacrifice, akin to those of Moloch, which the scurrilous Cantonese attributed to Tzŭ Hsi and the ladies of her Court. The last refers to the Manchu clan’s custom of intermarriage which, in the eyes of the Chinese (who disapprove even of marriage between persons of the same surname), is illegal and immoral.